A Threnody for Life
by Bonny Jinchuriki
Summary: A Zabini by birth. In reality, a muggle's soul transmigrated. Time to make things go my own way. Life as a wizard: it won't be easy, but I have a plan. A good one? We'll see. Self-insert.
1. Chapter 1: Genesis

A/N: Well, here I am again. After a long break of disliking writing fanfiction and enjoying fanfiction written by other authors. Perhaps I might leave again, leaving all my (meagre) readers hanging. I had this idea of writing a SI fic after I discussed some aspects of Harry Potter with a friend of mine. I've read amazing SI fics like Dreaming of Sunshine by Silver Queen. And so I bring to you this. I hope you enjoy. Now, you may believe that I am attempting to make my character as over-powered as possible after reading this first chapter. Do note that my character has the benefit of a fully-developed and mature mind. As Less Wrong states:

"First Law of Fanfiction: If you do anything to increase the protagonist's power, or make their life easier, you must also amplify their opponent or add extra difficulties to their life. **You can't make Frodo a Jedi unless you give Sauron the Death Star**. Otherwise, even if it is well-written in all other ways, your story will suck because the reader will know to expect an unending string of easy victories, leading them to neither wonder or care about what happens next. The Mary Sue is not defined by her power being too strong, but by her challenges being too easily overcome."

I do not want to write a sub-par fic if I continue writing this in the long run.

This is unbeta'ed, so there will be errors.

This fic will be rated T for now, but I may raise it later.

With that solemn statement, welcome to A Threnody for Life. Do stay a while.

EDIT 020715: Minor edits for grammar, added some lines to clarify and enlighten readers on future plans.

XxXxX

My first memories were not of that traumatic experience – birth – where I breathed air for the first time and expelled fluid from my insides; where I was pulled out of a comfortable liquid-filled capsule into the lukewarm atmosphere.

They went much further back. I remembered cars. People's faces. Train whistles. The ticking of clocks. Love and hatred. Everything bundled together by an inexplicable fragrance – that of attar of roses, but less artificial in nature.

But why? Why would I remember all of that if I am now but a mere babe, not five minutes from my time of birth, wrapped in a warm cloth and handed over to my mother – my new mother – for the very first time?

There were words to describe the possibilities.

The Hindus spoke of _Reincarnation_.

The Buddhists spoke of _Samsara_, that cycle of life and death only a few could escape forever. One I was perhaps subject to.

Poe and Nietzsche, the twin pillars that held up both my literary and philosophical views, spoke of _metempsychosis_, transmigration of the soul.

Did I die in my previous life before I came here? I knew only shades of grey, vague notions that amounted to nothing whatsoever when I made any attempt to concretize them. Everything was blurred, as if I were gazing at the other side of a misted-up looking-glass.

There I was, an adult trapped in an infant body. What could I do but cry out loud? My mind held little power over my juvenile, fragile form. I would react as a baby would, though I was as fully cognizant of my surroundings as my body would allow.

I was afraid then. I was frightened then. But as the days slowly passed, a new sensation, one not consonant with my very being made itself present. I had felt it before, but it was not as omnipresent as it was now. I could feel it in the air, in my very bones and organs. It was peculiar and irritating, I cried much in my first year of a new life. I could not help but try to push it away, assert my control over that strange sensation with my slowly awakening mind to ensure that I would no longer have an alien presence wrapped around every part of me. I learnt to suppress my reactions, to get accustomed to that eerie feeling that pervaded all of existence. It was everywhere.

I learnt to accept it even as I interacted with another infant that I later learnt was my step-brother. And it was his name that set alarm bells ringing furiously in my ennui-afflicted mind.

**_**Blaise Zabini.**_**

I immediately stopped crying. My caretaker assumed that the presence of another infant soothed me.

I _knew_ that name. I read every novel concerning the Potterverse that was written by Rowling when I was only a teenager in my previous life. Was I truly in the Potterverse now, or was I simply in a reality where a person named Blaise Zabini existed? I could not make a general conclusion from one piece of evidence. I had to know more.

And so I spoke my first words as early as possible, and made sure that I displayed a capacity for accomplishing much more than my peers could. As a so-called child prodigy, I had access to more resources.

I had to accept that I was in the Potterverse when, among other startling things, the words "Wingardium Leviosa", accompanied by the swish and flick of a wand, made me float upwards.

XxXxX

At age five, I knew and had decided on the following five facts.

Number One. The version of the Potterverse I was in was, as far as I could tell, faithful to the books, with the exception of my presence.

Number Two. My name. Evan Zabini. My new father, one of Blaise's mother's multiple husbands, was of Welsh origin, and died when I was just two. Unfortunately (or fortunately?), Blaise was only my half-brother and the only resemblance we shared was the features we had both inherited from our rather.

Number Three. I was apparently a pureblood. Not that I was too concerned about it, but it would make my self-assigned task of befriending certain individuals – Harry Potter, Hermione Granger for instance – harder as I would be perceived as one of the blood purists. The initial introduction was simple enough to begin manipulating their perception of my self, but being in Gryffindor would increase their wariness towards me.

Number Four. The strange sensation was actually magic. Having lived a life without magic, I was exceptionally sensitive to it. I discovered this only at the age of three, when my second-mother took me to St. Mungo's in an attempt to discover my ailment. It was hypersensitivity to magic. My family and relatives promptly celebrated the fact that I was not a Squib.

Number Five. I would ensure that I enjoyed myself (before attempting to fix everything that went wrong, naturally). I had, as so many others, dreamt of actually being in this reality. And I had every intention of playing around with everything.

But what did I need to do first before I could enjoy myself? I had to _study_. My memories were an incalculable advantage. But I would forget them in time. However, they could be retrieved more easily than if I had lost them via Obliviation. I need to study Occlumency. I had to protect them. I could not risk anyone finding out anything about myself. I could not risk losing them either.

Occlumency would protect them, and learning Legilimency would only supplement my knowledge of the mind. Another advantage to be added to my fore-knowledge. Normally, one as young as I was would not be able to learn both Arts. But I had the advantage of having an adult mind, one more suited to focus and patience.

Being a scion of the Zabini family had its benefits. All pureblood families had a niche of some sort – even the Weasleys had one before they sunk into near-poverty – and the Zabini family was not an exception. They were smugglers. Professional purveyors of illegal goods and services in and out of the United Kingdom, Ireland and Continental Europe. It was not a monopoly, but it was a lucrative trade that afforded much profit to make the Zabinis one of the richer European families, and I had enough access to the coffers that

I studied the theory for both beforehand in the small library of the Zabini residence. It helped that I was already immensely bored, and would find even the likes of Adam Smith's _The Wealth of Nations_ deeply fascinating. I learnt meditation techniques and practiced them liberally, to the extent that Blaise had taken to using an antique walking stick to awaken me from a trance to play with him.

When I turned six, I approached my mother about learning the practical aspects of Legilimency and Occlumency. She promptly cast the Legilimens spell on myself and was rather surprised to find a relatively solid barrier – though one that would give way to moderate mental prodding – barring her way to my mind. I had not progressed as far as creating my own personal mindscape, but it was a start.

To my surprise, she did not question my desire to learn Legilimency. Blaise would be her heir to all that she controlled, while I would serve the dual role of being the acclaimed prodigy, attracting people's attention away from Blaise, who would have a greater degree of freedom, and spare, if Blaise were to have an unfortunate incident. Legilimency was useful, and no one could deny its benefits. I simply ignored the questionable morality of using it.

I would visit Ollivander's the day after to obtain my wand. One could not practice Legilimency without a wand, after all. The Ministry diapproved of children having wands of their own before they received their Hogwarts letters, but in practice it was entirely legal.


	2. Chapter 2: A Day of Wands and Minds

A/N: Response was slightly encouraging (no reviews, though that may be because of the boring start), so I'm going on. Not that I expected much in the beginning. Here we go! More development, but I'll be adding in some elaboration on certain aspects of the Potterverse. If I have inadvertedly copied anyone, please inform me.

Note: I believe that the official exchange for Galleons to Pounds is too low (Seriously? A thousand galleons (i.e. 5000 pounds) just for winning a life-threatening tournament?). As such, I will be using the more accurate rate of 1 Galleon ≡ 50 pounds (as estimated in Lesswrong's HPMOR.) and adjusting the prices to more accurately reflect their true value as I see fit.

I invent some information below, and they do not clash with canon intentionally.

Facts about the wand are from the Harry Potter wiki.

Do try to review. It would make my day… along with increasing the frequency of updates.

Oh, and I do not own Harry Potter.

XxXxX

"Mother, is this Ollivander's?"

"Yes."

A simple word, one full of possible connotations, their number staggering.

She left me there with instructions to visit Fortesque's after receiving my wand, knowing that I could deal with Garrick Wandcrafter easily enough. After all, I had some experience in verbal sparring with my mother's acquaintances (one did not use the word 'Friend' amongst Purebloods, after all).

A ring of the bell above the door, just below the sign ('Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.!'), and I entered that quasi-sacred enclosure, where the ur-Wandcrafter of England had once dwelt within.

"Evan Zabini. A pleasure to meet you years before your assigned time."

"Mister Ollivander."

A nod and a small smile that conveyed nervousness and barely restrained excitement (I was, after all, going to receive my wand. Something I had dreamed of since I read Rowling's works when I was a child. My dream was coming true!) Was all that was needed to convince Ollivander to start searching for my wand.

I eagerly gazed around, drinking in the _feeling_ of wands thrumming everywhere within their dusty boxes, waiting for young wizards to claim and complete them. I reveled in the warmth of their magics, each one conveying a new idea that disappeared as soon as Ollivander handed me a wand to try.

And then it happened.

That magical moment where I was finally complete.

A sensation of liquid ecstasy rushed through my veins, making my toes curl (in a non-sexual way) and my hair stand on end, even as the wand emitted a startling display of fireworks reminiscent of Gandalf's at Bilbo's Eleventy-One birthday.

"Fourteen inches. Long for your age, but still as indestructible as any other wand. A core of Dragon Heartstring, Evan. Somewhat temperamental. Prone to accidents – you'll have an interesting time, I suppose. And redwood? Fascinating. It has a reputation for bringing good fortune to its owner. As is usually the case with wandlore, dear boy, the general populace have the truth back to front: redwood wands are not themselves lucky, but are strongly attracted to witches and wizards who already possess the admirable ability to fall on their feet, to make the right choice, to snatch advantage from catastrophe. I expect you to have a _very_ interesting life, Evan. Send me letters sometime, Evan. You have a fascinating imagination. One might even say you would write of other-wordly things."

A pause in my heartbeat. I maintained my composure.

I hadn't even detected It had never occurred to me that the reason that Ollivander knew who everyone entering his establishment was was because he knew Legilimency.

A wink.

"Don't worry, I won't tell. Though I'll be reinforcing my shop soon enough, Evan. Tell me more next time."

I left his store hurriedly after practically throwing the seven galleons at him.

XxXxX

It didn't take much to hire a top-tier instructor for the two arts. They were often intertwined, each being the bane of the other. As such, it was much in demand, and it wasn't unusual for purebloods – or any family with a respectable fortune, for that matter – to have learnt at least the basics of Occlumency before they went to Hogwarts for the very first time. My request was only unusual in that I was roughly half the age of the average child that learnt Occlumency.

The fees were relatively low – approximately 46 Galleons a month. The Zabinis were multi-millionaires, but never went above eight digits. They weren't one of the richest – that title went to the Malfoys, with a net worth of approximately 156 million Galleons (and perhaps a little more) – but they did have access to certain goods and services that were not exactly legal or easy to find.

Each Pureblood family had a niche. The Malfoys made their fortune in politics. They had deep links to the line of Charlemagne, which allowed them prestige and wealth, being involved in the rise and fall of empires and nations in Europe over the ages. The Blacks traded in knowledge and information. Their library was second to none – all manner of incunabula, pamphlets and arcane tomes could be found there. It was most notable for planting spies as amanuenses in every major European court, recording everything in ink on parchment. The Zabinis? Smuggling. It was, perhaps, an uncouth occupation, but one that was lucrative. Many in Europe needed something that wasn't readily available. Healers at St. Mungo's needed borderline Dark potions (as defined by the British Ministry), and asked no questions when provided them for a sum of gold. Durmstrang taught the Dark Arts, both basic and advanced, and hence was a major customer of the Zabinis.  
>What of the Light families then? They pursued more reputable pursuits. The Potters were noted patrons of the Arts – most of the distinguished authors, composers and artists in Western Europe had been influenced by them in one way or another. The Dumbledores, before their war with the Dark Side reduced them to a remnant, made their fortune in farming. Agriculture was necessary for the sustained development of a nation, and though it may have been sneered at in higher circles, the Purebloods of Europe politely avoided any mention of the Dumbledores' occupation and accepted them as one of their own. The farming tradition may have had a hand in Aberforth's less than healthy preoccupation with goats.<p>

The Mind Arts instructor, going only by the name of Straka, was hired for a smaller fee than normal in order to repay a favour my mother (I was getting used to calling her that, even though it felt strange and disrespectful to the memory of my First Mother) had done him. He would have already sworn the necessary Unbreakable Vows, preventing him from revealing _any _of my secrets to anyone except myself, not shielding or hiding the memories to be erased through Obliviation, and from changing my mind in any negative way – as defined by myself. I added that clause myself. I could not let anyone know about my secrets. As a precaution, he would submit to Obliviation by a trusted family member.

We entered a room that was warded against all forms of eavesdropping (excluding the head of the Zabini family). The first ten minutes were spent gauging my progress in Occlumency. I spent the next five minutes watching Straka attempting to rationalize the existence of another world, one where Harry Potter was simply a book series and where he did not exist. It was rather amusing, but it was wasting my time. I _had _to be ready by the time I entered Hogwarts. Dumbledore was one of the most proficient Legilimens in the _world_. Snape was not acknowledged as a master, but the subtlety and precision of his attacks were nothing to sneer at.

Half of the time was spent attempting to parry his repeated attacks against my mind. This was the fastest way to develop a strong shield. Harry Potter had failed with Snape because of the intense antagonistic relationship between them. The emotions made their mental facilities weak. It did not help that Snape abandoned subtlety for brute force. It appeared to have stopped short of causing damage to his mind, as my instructor told me after viewing a memory of me reading about that. The mind, he would say, was a delicate thing, something that could break apart with the right words, wand motions and creativity.

Legilimency, though, was much more interesting. Straka was renowned as a master of the Mind Arts in Continental Europe, and this was displayed by his manifestation of a complete mindscape. I could not hope to compete with him, and as such had to simply practice the Legilimency spell until I could cast it without a wand, while improving my proficiency at combating the mind's natural and contrived mental defenses, all the while endeavoring to taste of my target's surface thoughts, those thoughts that came into existence with each moment.

My mindscape began as a simple room. White, blinding white. A chair in the middle for me to sit and feel everything about it in order to exert my will over it.

When it was over, he tipped his hat to me, having gleamed part of my audacious plan for the world we were now in, and submitted to the Obliviation before turning on the spot, Disapparating into some unknown place.

The progress was small, but progress was progress.

XxXxX

Next chapter: More mindscape and a new art to study.


	3. Chapter 3: The Ball: Some interactions

A/N: Thank you to my very first reviewer, in caverns dark, for submitting a rather useful review. He makes some excellent points which I'd like to address here in this Author's Note.

**Inspiration:** I personally haven't read that fanfiction he mentioned (In Bad Faith), but I will say that my main inspiration for writing this fanfiction would be Dreaming of Sunshine by Silver Queen.

**Time in the story: **I did not make much mention of the passage of time/time in general except for the terms 'younger' and others. I have overlooked that, and I will be adding times. Whenever I feel that it is necessary, of course.

**Occlumency: **Now, if I recall correctly, the only way one could actually overcome Obliviation was through torture (see the Bertha Jorkins affair). Another one was _sort-of _implied – Lockhart recovering part of his self after spending time in a ward for long-term mental patients. And I have to clarify, the memories my OC have were not willingly shown to Straka, they were _gleamed_ from when Straka tested the mental shields. And for the purposes of this fanfiction, I will mandate that, even with the aid of a master of the Mind Arts, you will take an extremely long time to remember what has been forgotten. Torture will significantly shorten this period of time, but you will not retrieve everything. The mind will be broken in the process, and parts of the Obliviated memories will be lost. I have added another clause to the Unbreakable Vow such that Obliviation will actually work on him – I am following the convention that a sufficiently strong Occlumens can resist Obliviation, though not Obliviation on the level of Lockhart.

**Unbreakable Vow: **He didn't mention this, but I'd like to clarify. In this AU, I will say that it is really unbreakable with the exception of a Mary Sue-esque spell/power. Which will NOT be happening here. Specifically, you can think about the secret, but you can't think about giving it away in any manner possible. No method, convoluted or simple, will work. Crimestop, lassies and gents. Thoughtcrime is giving away the secret, and that's impossible with Crimestop. Imperius? Your magic will kill you if you cannot resist it. Resurrection Stone? Yes, if the wielder of the Stone is more magically powerful than the ghost's magic. The ghost is bound to obey you, but his magic will resist you.

'**Emptiness' of the story:** in caverns dark mentioned that I gave nothing about the interaction of my character with others (Examples he stated were Blaise, my mother – why did I dislike my new mother? What is she like? What does she do? Things like that), though with the exception of Ollivander. And it was already pretty short to begin with. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but he wants to see more about other people, not just my character's internal monologue for two straight chapters.

Allow me to say that I did plan to do something like that _eventually_, but it seems that having it now is required for a story to make it. I dislike dialogue, but I will add them, starting with this chapter. I have certain difficulties in interacting with people (which might just be why I dislike dialogue). As a consequence, I will be speeding up the pace, and I will not elaborate on the development of some of my OC's skills. Do try not to complain about that.

So apologies for that. Also, apologies for doing too much elaboration/exposition on the world I'm trying to create. I will readily admit that to be a fault of mine: I often ramble on and on about topics I'm interested in.

If you have any more questions, feel free to ask them in a PM or, preferably, a review. I will answer them in the next chapter if I feel that everyone should know. Otherwise, you'll get them in a PM.

Children may appear to develop faster than in the real world. My answer is, a quote by McGonagall from HPMOR in its first few chapters: "Magic."

If I inadvertently represent anything incorrectly, please accept my apologies. Do not rant at me. I will not be pleased. Send me a PM so that I can fix it.

I do not own Harry Potter.

On with the chapter!

_Italic: Thoughts_

XxXxX

**The Harry Potter Celebratory Ball, 31 October 1988 (Malfoy Manor, the Abraxas Chamber)**

**Age: Eight**

A fancy name for a richly-decorated room the size of a master bedroom, with a lit brick fireplace, a temperature-controlled environment and chaise lounges located around one crystal coffee table, glowing an eerie Slytherin green in the light of the flames, in front of the table. Its usual purpose was for entertaining valued guests privately, but today it was where the latest generation of the major Purebloods (Exceptions were made for notable Half-blood families) convened, whether Light, Dark or Neutral. Only the Black and Potter families remained unrepresented.

Draco Malfoy sat in the place of pride, the sole occupant of a lounge that faced the fireplace directly, as was his right as heir of the host family. His two retainers, Crabbe and Goyle, would stand behind him in the shadows, ready to serve his every need. The Crabbe and Goyle families once were _theow_ and _esne_ – serfs – to the Malfoy family, but now served as freemen – or rather, as free as blood-bound servants could be.

Around him were the Dark families – Greengrass, Nott, Parkinson, et cetera –, followed by the Neutrals – Zabini being the most notable – and lastly, on the lounges closest to the fire, the Light families – Longbottom, Abbott, Bones and so on.

Tonight was a night for neutrality – all families had agreed to maintain a pretense of civility as a mark of respect for those lost in the First War against Voldemort. Whether Death Eaters or Light-siders.

I was one of the few that actually had a wand – Draco, naturally, had one – and was idly twirling it around my small fingers, eyes half-closed as Draco finally finished his introductory speech (which sounded rather pretentious, though few of those present were of that opinion), secretly delighting in the looks of envy sent by a few.

"… And now allow me to propose a toast to Harry Potter, Scion of House Potter, for preventing further casualties in the First War."

We each raised our glass of finest Butterbeer.

"Drinc Hael!"

"Iechyd da!"

"To Harry Potter!"

"Sláine!"

"Santé!"

Each represented our families' origins – The first was for those of the Saxons, spoken in Old English. The second was for mine: Welsh. The third was for those that chose to take a modern stance (as taught by their parents). The fourth was Irish, and the last French. Malfoy spoke it alone, for though the English and French had a traditional rivalry, their connection with Charlemagne superseded that.

After the formalities were over, each of us relaxed, sinking back into the lounges, some walking over to others to start a conversation. This was the time for forming 'friendships', unofficial alliances that might become official in the distant future. After all, this was the first time we had all gathered. Each of us had been coached in the formal, profound terminology of politics, though we were apt to slip into normal talk once in a while due to our young age.

_This is my chance to ingratiate myself with some of them._

Blaise nodded at me, before walking over to Draco. He was, after all, the Zabini heir to all of the business, and the Malfoys were regular customers.

I nonchalantly walked over to the Longbottom heir, who was looking slightly peaky, then sat down beside him. Neville had already started developing a lack of self-confidence; it could be seen in his slightly panicked countenance. He had never done anything like this, even though he had had extensive lessons.

"I do believe we haven't met before. Evan Zabini. And you are…?"

I stuck out my hand, a slight smile on my face.

"Neville Longbottom." He spoke his name a little too hastily, his mouth snapping shut as he uttered the last syllable. He took my hand – a tremor could be detected – and shook it before swiftly letting it go. I ignored it.

"Ah, yes. Good to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you – good things, Mother says. Aren't you the one that managed to deal with a Devil's Snare by yourself?"

_Start with a topic he's interested in. Neville's a Herbology prodigy, and he should loosen up._

His face immediately brightened up, a slight blush forming. His next words carried enthusiasm and the confidence of one who knew what he was talking about.

"Yes, it was quite difficult actually. I was in the greenhouse trimming one of my Bonsai trees – they're imported from Nippon, apparently, a gift for my sixth birthday – when the Devil's Snare snuck up on me. I knew what they could do, so I didn't resist them. It was a little tight though…"

He trailed off as he was reminded about his own pudgy self, insecurity returning. Was it because he was raised by a half-senile old woman and continuously compared with two over-performing parents by all he met? I continued to smile, and gently encouraged him to continue speaking about the incident.

"Well, I managed to grab a bottle of liquid fire – the ones that come with a full-body Flame-Freezing charm – and opened it over the Devil's Snare. There was a horrible screeching sound, and it let me go. It had grown all over the greenhouse door though, and I couldn't get out. I knew that valerian roots could make someone sleepy, since I tried eating one myself, so I grabbed a few, mashed them up and stabbed the Devil's Snare with a pair of shears, then pushed the mashed-up roots into the wound. Took a long time, but it eventually stopped trying to grab me. I still don't know why it worked though. Might be because of the fire. I first extinguished it with some water from the baobab tree – Grand-uncle had had it for a long time, so I didn't want to hurt his feelings – and cut my way out. Grandmother was so proud, she said that I was living up to the name of Longbottom, and she got me my own wand! Look!"

One could clearly see Neville was bursting to show off his wand, but held back due to his own shyness. I continued to smile, though I was beginning to show some strain as he continued. This was good though – Neville was so pre-occupied by his tale that he had not noticed a small audience gathering around him.

"Unicorn hair, thirteen inches, cherry wood! She even taught me a spell to clean myself after a session in the greenhouse." He waved it around excitedly, then took his glass of Butterbeer and poured a little on his robes.

"Scourgify!"

His wand moved in a well-practiced S-shape, and the Butterbeer stain immediately disappeared. The small audience clapped, and he was instantly struck dumb, having only just been made aware of the listeners. I decided to spare him from having to speak to the others.

"That's great! You must be quite good at Herbology! I'm not too good in that myself – I can't tell a tree from a Quidditch broom myself."

Some polite laughter at the joke, then several made their introductions to Neville.

"Hi! I'm Hannah Abbott."

"Ernest Macmillian. Call me Ernie, everyone does that."

"Susan Bones. My auntie's Amelia Bones, she sometimes has tea with your grandmother."

_Neville's getting overwhelmed. Best turn their attention to me._

I nudged Neville, who moved to the side of the couch, blindly obeying me as he was caught up in a whirlwind of introductions, replying with the same phrase over and over again.

"Alright," I spoke loudly, drawing their attention, "my name's Evan. Evan Zabini. I'm about as good in Ancient Runes as Neville is in Herbology. Perhaps you'd like a demonstration? "

Magic spells were a dime a dozen these days for the children; they could not cast more than a few, but they had seen their parents and parents' friends do it at almost every opportunity. They had applauded for Neville because he had managed to cast a spell on the first try (doing so was impressive enough for them, even though he had been practicing it for quite some time), and because of him having his own wand.

Ancient Runes though? They had never seen it in action before. The art of manipulating symbols and concepts was one that few pursued. The difficulty of learning different rune sets, of learning the myriad concepts behind even one glyph or rune and of using them together to create effects that could replicate magic or go beyond it did not endear it to most. In Hogwarts, the students were taught mostly theory – practical exams involved students creating simple strings of symbols to accomplish a mundane purpose. Very few students wanted to do more than that, and most took it for the relatively easy OWL and NEWT grade. Most Dark Lords chose not to pursue it, merely learning but a little to supplement their magic and rituals. It would take too long to learn to such a degree that one could actively use it in their battles with the Light.

But for me? Ancient Runes was _fascinating._ I had had some experience in Old English and its forebears, having studied them in my leisure time when I was an undergraduate in a university. It helped that I had access to texts and translations. And I could view the runes as abstract entities with my passion for pure mathematics and logic, combining them in different ways the same way I had once did with abstruse mathematical symbols in my first life. I was no _Gödel_ though.

It also helped that each Rune had countless stories about it. I loved reading.

The others eagerly nodded their heads, gathering around me. I caught Neville's eye and winked at him before taking out a piece of parchment from my pocket, then withdrawing my prized Occamy quill, this year's birthday present from my mother, and a bottle of ink derived from a high-quality Chinese inkstick with the fragrance of sandalwood, enchanted to have the properties of an Everlasting Elixir and to provide an unparalleled smoothness. It cost me a hundred galleons – the entirety of my birthday allowance – but writing with it was such a pleasure that I counted them well spent.

_Elder Futhark for this one. The core of the sigil. Kaunan. Torch or beacon. I want to produce light, but not too much, so I cannot use Sowilo, the sun. Three is the number of the roots of Yggdrasil. Sowilo, the circling wheel, and drawn thrice round Kaunan. To complete the trinity, Naudiz. __Nauðr gerer næppa koste, as the Old Icelandic rune poem goes. Constraint gives scant choice. To ensure control over the light, and to limit what I can do with it._

A sphere of dim light intensity appeared above the parchment, eliciting startled gasps and drawing stares from all around. I did not have anything but myself to sustain the reaction, and so I could feel my own magic sinking into the sphere bit by bit. I could have tried to create it with only _Kaunan_, but I lacked the precise control required to conform the concepts the rune summoned to what I wanted. It would have been too much, not to mention too taxing. Finding a source of energy would be for later.

_Isaz. Ice. Winter. The end of the seasons, the season that spells death for many. Endings. __Yet it provides the foundation for a new beginning. Odin used it to bind Rindr, mother of __Váli, slayer of__Höðr. So the tales go._

I drew a sharp, linear slash across the sigil after allowing the others to have their fill of it, touching it gingerly and snatching their hands back before they gained more confidence and start trying to grasp it. The rune quenched the light, and I crumpled the piece of parchment before placing all of my materials back into my pocket.

"Alright, that's enough of that."

XxXxX

"Aida, how are your two sons?"

The sultry matriarch, still looking as alluring as she was a decade ago, smiled slightly before answering her long-time friend, Narcissa Malfoy.

"Fine, thank you. Blaise is coming along nicely. He's paying attention in his lessons, and he's developed an interest in Quidditch – don't all boys do? He's had to drag Evan away from his books every time he wants a game," the ladies shared a small laugh before Aida continued, "and Evan just lets him do that. Evan's been simply wonderful; he's already learning more than just first-year spells. I must show you some of his runic works during one of your tea sessions. Oh! That reminds me. What kind of tea have you imported from far-away lands, Cissy?"

"_Tiěguānyīn__._"

The three Chinese words were pronounced with a high degree of accuracy, attesting to her deep interest in the tea world.

"A delight for the taste buds. Aida, I have to thank you for introducing me to such new varieties of tea. Earl Grey does get a tad boring after some time, after all."

"No need to thank me, Cissy – I just _had_ to do something for you after your little Draco helped Evan out when he was in a spot of bother."

Narcissa beamed as Aida reminded her of that incident.

"Well, Lucius and I _do_ have to teach Draco something about life and living, after all – helping one of his friends is something we encourage. I still remember how delightfully funny Evan looked after he was pulled out of the water by Draco. Drenched and covered in Gillyweed!"

She left it unsaid that it could be used as a form of leverage over the helped. Both ladies knew very well that Draco was too young to be able to think of something like that most of the time; this reminder was just part of a game they had played with each other since their time at Hogwarts.

"Haven't you forgotten that Draco makes mistakes too? Why…"

XxXxX

"Evan, would you mind staying for just a moment? I need to discuss something with you."

Towards the end of the ball, Draco tapped my shoulder even as the others prepared to leave, donning their tailored dress robes, each made of a variety of materials, including silk enchanted with warming charms, Malfoy's being made of the winter coat of the ermine. Though it was only mid-Autumn, there had already been a large dip in the temperature.

I motioned for Blaise to leave me with him, expecting that it was the usual 'meeting' Draco would have with his 'friends' in order to show that they had, in some way, a modicum of importance to the Malfoy family. He was imitating Lucius at any public gathering every now and then, since it had worked for his father, he automatically assumed that it would work for him. A rather large assumption, since it relied on the other children being observant and insightful enough to come to that conclusion.

We moved to the balcony through a door in the Abraxas Chamber, using the upturned collar of our robes to protect our faces from the cold autumn wind. He closed the door before turning to me, a serious expression that looked slightly comical fixed onto his face.

"What do you think you're doing?"

I was admittedly dumb-founded for a moment.

"What do you mean by that?"

"You're trying to befriend Longbottom. Do you know who he is?"

"Other than a natural at Herbology?"

Draco raised his voice after ensuring that no one was around to hear him.

"He's practically… a Squib at everything else!"

"And?"

"You know what they say about his grandmother. She fraternises with Dumbledore, that muggle-loving fool."

By then, I had regained my composure, and merely raised an eyebrow.

"Should I be concerned?"

"You should be! The Zabinis have been close to the Malfoys for more than a century. You can't just do something like that!"

I smirked to myself. This would be an opportunity to change his beliefs – at least marginally.

"Draco, listen to me. Your father has taught you about politics, n'est-ce pas? Now, think about it, why would I try to do something like that?"

He frowned, having been caught off-guard by my non-denial of his accusation.

"I think… it's about connections, isn't it?"

"Correct!" I slapped him on the back; we were close enough that something like that wouldn't bother him.

"By befriending Neville, I am maintaining the Zabinis' neutrality. We cater to both sides. We are not wholly on the Malfoys' side. Blaise is the heir, and he's expected to be seen as leaning towards your faction. I am known for being a genius, and I need to balance Blaise out somehow. Longbottom is a respected name, and Neville accepting me as a friend will raise my standing in the eyes of the Light. Now, what do you think of Muggles?"

He made a surprisingly good attempt at emulating his father's way of expressing scorn when discussing a particularly distasteful topic.

"Muggles? Why do we even bother about them?"

"James Potter married a Muggle-born. Lily Potter was a prodigy at Charms. Harry Potter is Half-blood. Do you agree that to defeat the Dark Lord, Harry Potter had to be extremely powerful? Even though his mother was a –"

"Mudblood?"

I let some of my distaste for that term show on my face.

"Please don't speak that word in my presence," I raised a hand to forestall his protests before continuing, "We are sons of the most powerful Pureblood families in England. We are not plebeians – that's common citizens – that use crude language at a whim. 'Mudblood' is vulgar and uncouth – using it is unbecoming of us. Use 'Muggle-born', if only to give an impression of being polite. We know that some Muggle-borns can be useful for our own purposes. So having them happy would allow us to use them more easily. Understand?"

Draco slowly nodded, before opening the door and gesturing for me to enter the Manor.

"I'll… think about it."

I knew he would. Draco had been raised to believe that Muggles were the worst breed of creatures, and that being a Malfoy meant that he was in the higher echelons of Purebloods; his immense pride in his name and standing was cultivated carefully by his parents and relatives. The twain would clash with each other when a suitable catalyst – in this case, my few sentences – presented itself, and it would force him to think more than he usually did. If he had any questions, he would seek his father's help. It was only natural. It would allow Lucius Malfoy to see that I was more perceptive than an average Pureblood. As to whether raising his interest in me was wise or foolish, only time would tell. My words would not persuade him to ban all interaction between me and Draco. He would know me to be careful enough that I did not voice my true views, which could be more sympathetic to Muggles than was acceptable to people of his ilk.

"Goodbye, Draco. See you tomorrow."

XxXxX

Well, that's that. See you next time!


	4. Chapter 4: The Wild Hunt

A/N: Thanks to in caverns dark again for being the only reviewer. If this is a pattern (inductively speaking) then I don't like where it's going. I'll still write though.

Apologies for the one-month absence: I have recently re-discovered Killing Floor, and it has been thoroughly occupying my time.

Oh, and I like the occasional bit of alliteration.

Any complaints about OP characters will be addressed in the next chapter (or in a PM, if it is a minor issue) when I receive them.

So: I do not own Harry Potter.

For the purposes of this fiction, I shall be using the reason of _artistic license_, since I feel that some real-life texts are inadequate (and also because I'm simply too lazy). I have drawn on both Hellboy and myths for part of this chapter.

Thoughts: _Italics_

XxXxX

**After the Ball.**

If one were to enter the Headmaster's Office in Hogwarts after the spiraling staircase, one would not immediately notice a massive, tattered incunabulum placed on a marble plinth worn away by time and corrosive magic, as it blended in perfectly with the wall behind it, and the exotic and glimmering contraptions located everywhere would only contribute to the unnoticeability of the tome.

It was one of the most important artefacts Hogwarts held, dating back to the time of the Founders.

It was the Book in which all Hogwarts students' names – past, present and prospective – were recorded. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, current Headmaster of Hogwarts, the Wizard with a Title too Many, was contemplating a few names in the Book. Nearby, Fawkes sang softly, his soothing song succouring the somnolent schoolmaster, providing him the strength to continue his train of thought through the tiresome tiredness that troubled him. The portraits of the past headmasters and headmistresses, all bound to obey the Headmaster's every command, either slept in their chintz armchairs or argued over minutiae in most everything.

_So. Harry Potter._

Having just left the Ball, using his old age as an excuse to retire for the night and review the information he had gained about the new children of the Families, Albus Dumbledore's mind was naturally on the mysterious star of the Ball that never showed up.

_Still going nicely. The Dursleys have been treating him badly, as per Arabella's reports. No encounters with any wizards or witches except Dedalus. I... should have done something earlier. No matter. Hagrid will frighten them - I'll slip in a few hints about how they've treated him, and he'll do the rest. Speaking of Hagrid, I must ensure that he remembers to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone from Gringotts. The Goblins do not know about it, and I pray they never will. Nicolas would never forgive me._

Another page.

_Hermione Granger. A prodigy. Complete eidetic memory, probably because of the influence of her magic. Socially inept. Bullied by her peers, too afraid to report it to any authorities. She will be a problem at Hogwarts. Too reliant on books. The Muggleborn will inadvertently insult Pureblood families and become known as a know-it-all. She needs friends - Hufflepuff? Gryffindor? Ravenclaw will be too unwelcoming of her, even though she fits right in._

_Ronald Weasley. A prat. Lazy. Gluttonous. He has some measure of courage – that should sort him into Gryffindor, since he has none of the traits the other houses have. Not magically powerful. Average or below average aptitude in every subject offered at Hogwarts except possibly Muggle Studies, if only due to his father. Excellent in chess - but it is not enough for Ravenclaw. Not that being good in chess implies intelligence. How do I improve him? He needs to look beyond himself. Friendship will help him._

He shook his head, attempting to banish the drowsiness from his body.

_Last one then for tonight._

"**Note: Review obtained information at Ball in the Pensieve as soon as possible."**

A quill wrote the words on a piece of parchment. Dumbledore placed his wand to his head and withdrew the relevant memories and placed them within the Pensieve before returning to the Book.

_Evan Zabini. A strange one. More mature than most adults, albeit having some childish moments. Plays the piano rather well. Ancient Runes prodigy, and fluent in Old English, Old Norse, Latin, Sanskrit, Welsh, Italian and Chinese according to reports and his family members. Shows some proficiency in French, but he appears to be only starting on the language. Probably due to expensive Language Lozenges, but he must have spent time on practicing them, since the effects will fade without frequent usage of the language. Very suspicious for one so young to be such a polyglot. Must investigate that. Also trained in Occlumency – as are all children of the prominent Pureblood families. His magic is average for children of his age, though more refined. A possible Muggle sympathiser. Well-spoken, careful in the usage of words. Evan will most probably go to Slytherin or Ravenclaw. Correction: Evan will go to Ravenclaw. Blaise will go to Slytherin, being the Zabini heir, and garner connections for his future. Evan will continue drawing attention away from Blaise, and that will benefit the Zabini family in the long run._

_His mind is sharp – he may have detected my Legilimency probe even at a moderate level of subtlety. But he is in no danger of being Dark, as far as I can tell. I detected hints of strong emotions when I spoke of Riddle's plunge into the abyss, and there was definitely disgust and revulsion. Evan may very well help my dream for England come true._

XxXxX

**The Malfoy Manor. Morning. Yule. 21****st**** of December, 1988.**

I threw a book on Sumerian mythology to the side, frustrated by the esoteric cuneiforms used to write it. It was slow-going, using several books for cross-reference to translate the cuneiform – they could either represent concepts (concrete or abstract) or simply sounds. No scholar, Wizarding or non-Wizarding, had completed translating the Sumerian cuneiforms fully, and different writers had views on what the translations should be. One of the Malfoys' house-elves picked it up before it touched the ground, dusting it with a feather-duster before replacing it on the shelf.

"Don't touch anything on the table, Dobby."

The house-elf nodded before Disapparating. Just then, Draco came into the library, his broom floating by his side, appearing almost eager to be ridden.

"Evan! If you can't play Quidditch, come and watch us instead of spending all your time in this stuffy place. You're not looking too well anyway," he gestured to the vexed expression on my face, "so you need fresh air. It isn't that cold out there."

I acquiesced, snatching a self-refilling quill and some parchment from the table before running out after Draco. I nearly collided with his father. Thankfully, he was preoccupied with a letter from the Minister of Magic – probably another request for 'funds' or a donation to a 'charity' (said charity giving a portion of all received monies to Cornelius Fudge, naturally) – and simply muttered "On your way then, boy" after I hastily apologised.

It goes without saying that Draco had a top-tier Quidditch field with a few stands at each side. There were features such as cushioning charms on every square inch of the field, Snitches and Bludgers with customisable difficulty levels and magical recording equipment that could give a play-by-play analysis (albeit analytic in nature) and as many statistics as anyone could wish for.

I waved at the two teams of seven, each composed of some of the children of the families in the three factions in the Wizengamot, before joining Neville (who had been poisoned by a strange hybrid he himself had created, and was thus recuperating and in no condition to be physically active). Quidditch was not very fascinating to one such as myself, since the basic premise was rather flawed.

_Instead of ending the game when the Snitch is caught, a time limit should be imposed. Perhaps an hour and a half, just like football matches? Catching the Snitch will win points equivalent to Chasers scoring fifteen times. That's really stupid. Too much importance is accorded to the Seeker. He gets most of the glory._

"You alright, Neville?"

He winced, remembering the spores that had been blasted into his face after he prodded a benign-looking bulb with a small glass rod one time too many. The symptoms had included incontrollable regurgitation of all his meals and a nasty rash that covered his entire body.

"Yes… I think."

"Want me to try to fix something up for you, just to relieve any irritation or pain?"

"No need. Gran says a bit of pain's fine, it'll just toughen me up."

"If you say so…"

I leant back on the cushioned seat, idly watching Malfoy dart around the field, most probably imitating every professional Seeker in the most horrifying and aesthetically unpleasing (due to his relative inexperience) way possible, while the other members of his team attempted to score against the Keeper again and again. Crabbe and Goyle were flying upside-down around the field, hitting the Bludgers while attempting to right themselves.

A quick scribble on the parchment to craft a rough rune array and a magical cigarette lighter (the proper term was Smeltington's Excellent Pipe Lighter – used by gentlewizards since the 1600s!) to provide an initial burst of energy, the catalyst, was all that I required to amplify my voice.

"Draco! If you continue doing that, you'll tire yourself out –"

I cut off the rest of my words as I noticed his father walking towards me, gesturing for me to approach him.

"I'll be right back, Draco, Neville."

I burnt the parchment, following Lucius Malfoy as he turned and returned to the Manor, entering his office. As he sat down on his chair, I stood in front of his desk, waiting for him to speak.

"**Evan Zabini. Draco says you have… something to ask of me."**

"Yes." A pause, to consider the next few words correctly.

"I have need of an unregulated Time-Turner. I know you can obtain one for me."

A slightly raised eyebrow to signify some measure of surprise, then he regained his composure.

"**And what do you offer in return?"**

I took a deep breath, knowing that the next few words would be of utmost importance.

"I have a clue to the location of the current home of Harry James Potter."

I enjoyed the look of extreme surprise on his face – it wasn't often one got to see that, after all. It was something totally unexpected, something he had never expected me to say. But this was a gamble. If I told him the clue, he would pass it to Voldemort once his Lord was resurrected, and Harry Potter would not be safe. In the near future, he could use it against Dumbledore – I did not know what kind of person Dumbledore was, but I had a vague idea of a deluded master manipulator, one on the brink of a God complex, tempered by rationality and over a century of experience. But I judged it to be a safe gamble, one that I could win. Harry Potter would return to the Dursleys after Voldemort rose, but I could cause a gas incident.

"**Ah. And how would I know that you would be telling the truth?"**

"You will be able to prove the truth of what I tell you on the day the Hogwarts Express leaves for Hogwarts with all the students. Until then, I will not say anything more."

He remained silent for a minute, allowing me to feel nervousness, anxiety and an urge to finish the deal as fast as possible.

"**The Department of Mysteries is… not as easy to obtain something from, especially a Time-Turner. I can give you an exception based on your academic prowess. You know enough runes to do what you want to do. You will tell me the rest of the information on September First."**

The unspoken "or else" was implied.

"Harry Potter lives in Number 4 with a Muggle family, who mistreats him. If Draco can avoid antagonising him inadvertently, you will know more. I will send you a letter then."

"**Be off, then."**

XxXxX

**Night.**

"Are you sure this is safe?"

Draco spoke in a whisper, a faint fearful tone present.

"It is said Odin rewards one who participates in the Wild Hunt willingly and sincerely, and punishes any person who mocks it or impedes it deliberately. If we survive, that is."

Draco and Blaise both frowned, displaying an unusual nervousness in their body language. I ignored it. The tales told of Odin were many, but _Rúnatal Óðins_, the stanzas in _Hávamál_ that spoke of how he obtained the runes, was of utmost interest to me. That was the reason I wanted to risk myself in the Wild Hunt, doing something few had done before.

"You may leave if you do not want to risk your life."

Blaise turned almost immediately.

"Goodbye then, Evan. I will not tell Mother about this unless you do not return. Do try, though. I know you well enough that stopping you would be useless – you have a reason for this, and I will not interfere. Draco, come along. Your father will be displeased if he hears of this."

The Zabinis were unaccustomed to showing emotion, and a potential last farewell would not deter Blaise from adhering to the unspoken rule.

Draco cast one last look at me before hurrying after Blaise.

"See you all later… I hope."

I was ready for the Wild Hunt. Or rather, I hoped I was ready. I had created defensive arrays, myriad runes written all over my own body and clothes to protect them from the dangers I could gleam from the old tales (and a few more). My wand was safely secured in a holster attached to my wrist. I reviewed the few spells I could cast with at least a small degree of proficiency (having focused mainly on other areas of magic). _Aguamenti. Expulso. Arresto Momentum. Incendio._

My forte was not in magnitude, for I would never be a powerhouse like Voldemort or Albus Dumbledore. What I had was precision in spades. _Aguamenti_ could be restructured as a thin, high-pressure stream of water that could cut through soft tissue in an instant. _Expulso_ was normally a spell that caused explosions, but I had adapted it to exert pressure in a single point or in a small area, greatly improving its piercing capacity. _Arresto Momentum_ could stop a person's heart. I could not set fire to an entire building with _Incendio_ without falling unconscious, but producing a small flame of high intensity was within my meagre abilities.

"_**Evan Zabini."**_

The wind howled, bringing with it the smell of mead and cold metal, the howls of the hunting hounds and warriors of Valhalla; I met Odin in his eyes for a moment before nodding. A shiver ran through my body involuntarily as he continued to stare at me; power immeasurable lay burning behind that single eye. Was it not true that the diminution of one's faculties simply concentrated one's powers behind what remained?

"Well met, Lord Odin."

His eye swept over my appearance.

"_**I see you bear my runes, child. Wear them well, for tonight we hunt Draugar."**_

Tales of the dead men with superhuman strength, the ability to shape-shift, and a body that emitted a constant stench of death and decay, one that could literally corrode my fragile, mortal flesh from my bones, flashed through my mind, but I steeled myself. I wanted something, and Odin could give it to me. I tried not to dwell on the powers they were _said_ to have – seeing the future, albeit in a limited fashion, and controlling the weather to facilitate the temporary satiating of their eternal hunger.

I took his hand, and we were off, off into the cold night, against the winds of ill fortune; exhilaration and joy in the wind rushing through my hair soon took over the fears, and I shouted (with a higher-pitched voice) with the others who rode with me. It soon became a blur, as we travelled over hill and glen, one filled with roars and constant mead-fuelled singing of snatches of Norse songs that, as unintelligible as they were, still made sense to me subconsciously: they spoke of Wild Hunts long past, of the coat of intermingled blood and sweat a _berserkr _would wear after a battle, and of the Bloodwrath that sang in their veins, always eating away at the multitude of chains that normality, mundane peaceful matters, _l'ennui terrible_, would throw over their bodies and minds.

And then we stopped, cutting off the flow and containing all of the built-up excitement within our bodies. We had arrived at the barrows of the Draugr, who were already creeping out in force, their forms shifting every now and then according to their whims; a frail hag, an anthropomorphic wolf resembling the _Úlfhéðnar__, wolf-skinned berserkers who took on forms betwixt man and wolf, and a dwarf of dark countenance, short and stout. Here it may be noted that, unlike chocolate teapots, Draugr tend to succeed at killing most they meet._

Odin hefted his spear Gungnir and threw it over the soon-to-be battlefield, mimicking his action at the very beginning of the Ӕsir-Vanir war.

"_**I dedicate this battle to Odin."**_

It plunged into the chest of a fully awaken Draugr before returning to Odin, its blade and length as clean as the day it was forged.

The warriors of Valhalla charged into battle first, their shields and all manner of weaponry raised high; a morning-star here, an axe there, a hammer not unlike Mjolnir, but barely approaching the power of the Eitri-forged creation. All roared, filled with the exhilaration of war.

Their battle-scarred skin would withstand the corrosive effect of the Draugr's fumes, but mine would not. My defences would only hold for so long, as I had not the time to tailor them to specifically counter the gases that, upon making contact with moisture, would turn into deadly acids. I made a mental note to stock up on useful chemicals before turning to attack them.

"_Incendio_."

Miniscule capsules of flame found their way into the throats of the seven Draugr who were only just emerging from their own barrows, igniting the flammable gases that were created upon decomposition of their bodies. They would stay down for a minute or so while they regenerated – enough time for the warriors to cut them down. Sheathing my wand, I moved closer to the fray, grasping a spear one of them had passed to me. I became more prone to panic the closer I went to the Draugr, becoming nauseous after breathing in the tiniest part of the fumes before the air filters I had set up went to work.

As inexperienced I was in the art of the spear, I managed to down one by chance. A Draugr broke through the ranks in the form of a giant, and an well-aimed Expulso broke through both of his knees, sending him down to the ground. In my unsettled state, I rushed at him, shouting incoherently, so caught up was I, and heedless of the danger that such an idiotic action would provide to myself, started to stab him in the face, one hand grasping the spear and plunging it down on him, the other holding my wand and waving it wildly in the air.

"Gah!"

A tentacle caught me the next moment, pulling forcefully at my leg, but I cut through it with another _Incendio_ even as I fell. The giant had shape-shifted into a large octopus, and was attempting to capture and devour me. The next instant, I had cast an _Aguamenti_, and I tore through the soft tissue of the gargantuan octopus, slicing it into half with ease.

"Yes! Oh, for goodness' sake…"

The tentacle, wrapped in glowing ooze that was about as corrosive as the gases, had initiated a cascading collapse of the defensive wards on myself. Later, I would review my wards, and determine that the acids had upset the balance between stability and defensive power to such an extent that my wards drew too much power from the rune arrays that kept me breathing clean air, initiating a failsafe that reduced the magic intake of the defensive wards. They soon failed after that, and the backlash collided with my other wards and took them out.

Then I breathed in the gases, and collapsed to the ground, coughing out what I could, saliva dripping from my mouth (a biological mechanism used to maintain the pH level of the mouth at a normal range, given that saliva acts as a buffer solution, but wholly useless in this situation) as I grasped and scratched at my throat, yearning to erase the burning sensations within. It overpowered my mind to such an extent that I could not even sense the gaping wound on my leg that had opened when the severed tentacle _brushed_ at it.

Then a firm hand grasped my shoulder, and the cessation of pain was so sudden that I collapsed on the ground, a mess of sweat and Draugr body fluids.

"_**Stand, boy. There are still more to fight."**_

I watched as runes flowed from where he touched me in the form of lines, glowing whenever they intersected with each other, restoring and optimising my wards. He walked forwards, continuing to throw his spear again and again.

My throat and nasal passages would still feel burnt, and I would have an infected leg wound, but I would still survive. A low-powered _Aguamenti_ cleaned it as best as I could, and one of the warriors who were less battle-hungry bandaged it swiftly before running towards the remaining foes.

I rested there, on the body of a slowly disintegrating octopus/Draugr, for a few moments before lifting up the spear again, moving towards the slowly advancing line, where the Draugr and Asgardians still fought.

"_Expulso_. _Arresto Momentum._"

The words came as a whisper, barely audible in the cacophony of battle, but they soon made their effects known.

Holes appeared in place of eyes, blinding the creatures for a few moments. Draugr about to deal the killing blow struggled against the magic I had placed into the binding spell, slowing down enough for their foes to escape and counter any further attacks.

An hour before dawn, the last one was finally killed. I was already tired out before then, and lay against the side of an old ash, attempting to draw enough air into my lungs, fighting against the pain that came with every breath.

"_**Drink, child."**_

I gulped greedily at the golden mead offered to me, feeling a momentary cooling sensation as it flowed over the acid-burnt tissue. It gave me enough strength to struggle to my feet and, with ample help, get up on the horse that had brought me there.

The return journey was swift, but Odin led my horse to a secluded grove near the Malfoy Manor before I would leave.

"_**You have survived the Wild Hunt, child. But with my help. I cannot offer you much then, except a word of advice."**_

I nodded.

"_**I have seen your heart, and I see a hard path in front of you. Take up my mantle then, as a few have done so. Hang on the tree – but not Yggdrasil, for that is not yours. Find your tree with unknown roots. Apotheosis, in a manner. You will gain much, but you will sacrifice a part of yourself permanently. Fare you well, Evan."**_

XxXxX

A/N: There. I will not deign to respond to flames. However, I will accept proper criticism. If you think my SI character is becoming too OP, well, you should see how much I've given Voldemort, Dumbledore, and pretty much every other antagonist in future chapters. Until then, farewell.


	5. Chapter 5: The Sorting

A/N: You know, I _am_ the author of this fanfiction for a reason. Therefore, I'm going to do what I like… after considering improvements that can be made, naturally. If I'm going to be writing something akin to my _magnum_ _opus_ for the world of Harry Potter, I'm going to do it my way (which can be changed, naturally).

This time, it's not Killing Floor. It is, however, Reaper of Souls.

I do not own the Doctor. I do not own Harry Potter until I own Harry Potter. Until then, it is owned by J.K. Rowling, bless her soul. Some parts of this chapter come from Philosopher's Stone (I absolutely refuse to use "Sorcerer's Stone"). Naturally, if the first statement of this paragraph, it necessarily follows that I do not own the aforementioned parts. I have edited the parts to better suit the flow, and hence what I added should be mine, unless I add something of hers, but in essence it is hers (I hope).

I'm speeding this up a little because I only recently found inspiration when I wrote something funny for me (not necessarily funny for me).

Again, I would like to reiterate that I am giving everything a major power-up. It will take time for you to notice, though.

_Italics – thoughts._

XxXxX

**Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, a few minutes before departure of the Hogwarts Express**

As always, an exchange of slightly teary smiles, a promise to write and a gesture of farewell.

The Zabinis were not known to be people who expressed their emotions without any qualms. My mother (I had slowly gotten used to using the term after years with her) though, was just as teary as any mother sending off her first child or children to Hogwarts, being unable to see them for the next few months.

These were rare tears, a large proportion of the few genuine tears I had seen her shed over the years, and I felt a rush of familial affection for her as I turned my head to catch the last look I would have of her for months to come, even as I climbed up the few steps to enter the Hogwarts Express proper, with my brother Blaise. My personal semi-sentient (or so the inch-thick manual that came with it said explicitly) storage chest, one that I had, in a fit of whimsy, nicknamed Chester after I received it for my eleventh birthday, followed me dutifully.

We nodded at each other, exchanging a look in lieu of speaking out loud, reminding each other of our intentions. He would join Malfoy in his compartment, one of a few large ones reserved for members of the Board of Governors (even though the Hogwarts Express was traditionally for students only; Remus Lupin being someone I had yet to account for, though that might have been due to his status as a then new teacher) and any who had permission from the latter. I would attempt to find Harry Potter.

I suppressed a sigh as I went over the many political duties the pureblood children had to endure – mistakes would be poorly tolerated; alliances and vendettas could and would be created and dissolved innumerable times over the course of seven years.

Whilst still pondering the dreary thoughts that had arisen, I remembered my private meeting with Lucius Malfoy. It had gone as well as it could have; Lucius Malfoy confirmed that Harry Potter was residing at Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey within minutes of my telling him. Both of us held our poker faces well as we received what we wanted; inside, I was jumping for joy as I received my very own personal potential-causality-violating object (and that was assuming that the Everett interpretation and Novikov's self-consistency principle, among other things, were false). One that I could use to great effect; I imagined accelerating my experiments into all and sundry and runic research. Odin's advice would have to wait; I would be busy.

The sound of my engraved cane against the wooden floor (which was most probably enchanted against wear and tear and all manner of strange oddities the students came up with) as I walked down the carriages, Chester following me obediently on four stumpy legs that were sturdier than what they looked like, was soothing in some way, preventing any irritation from taking a hold on me, since I had already spent five minutes searching for the last of the Potters. It was almost as if he didn't want to be found, and had somehow used magic to accomplish that aim. Then again, he had had to learn to be invisible the non-magical way to survive the Dursleys. And then, just as I was contemplating the use of a 'Point-me' charm, I found him, still alone. Ronald Weasley would be coming soon.

"Is there any room for me here?"

Harry Potter nodded, and I shot a quick grin at him before sitting down directly across him, leaning my cane against one of the walls of the compartment. I watched his eyes glance at and focus on Chester, who complied with my silent request to move to a corner.

"His actual name's Castra, but I call him Chester. He seems to like it more, anyway. He's not exactly sentient per se, but he does have quite a docile personality, except when he encounters a cat. Goes crazy over them – I caught him feeding one with the milk and biscuits I made myself just the week before."

I noted that he seemed overwhelmed by my casualness, simply nodding at the correct points in my short monologue.

"Oh, right! Where are my manners? Name's Evan Zabini, and you are?"

I stretched out my hand, and he took it after a moment's hesitation, shaking it once before hastily withdrawing his hand.

"Harry Potter."

"Ah, I see. Tell me –"

Ronald Weasley displayed his remarkable, even prodigious lack of tact by all but barging in without so much as a by-your-leave, asking if he could have a seat, as all the other compartments were full.

"Ronald. Good to see you here."

"Zabini."

A wary nod was all I received – that was all I expected. I had sat in on a few meeting of the Light Radical families' children, and they all knew who I was. For the most part, I was tolerated, and I had made some progress in making myself more acceptable to them – the few comments I had made at the last meeting were well-received. Being Neville's friend had helped. Although being seen as the first person to meet Harry Potter proper on the train could be a bad thing, after all – Ronald was not exactly the brightest of his generation (that title would go to one Hermione Granger), and he could have misconstrued my actions as attempting to seduce Harry to the Dark Side (of the Force, or of the Magical Arts, depending on which fandom I was in).

Everything went the way it did in the book; Ronald and Harry's interaction was exactly the same as it was written in the books, but with the addition of a few incisive comments on the salient points of their discussion on… Quidditch. Admittedly not the most interesting of topics, but I could draw both Ronald and Harry's attention to the mathematics behind a broom, subtly influencing their opinion of the Broom Mathematics elective in Arithmancy (which, contrary to the apparent etymology of the word, involved all manner of mathematics).

Perhaps a part of me was lost in the sheer _magic_ I felt thrumming all around me, both physical and metaphysical; unlike so many others, I would actually be able to experience the Wizarding World as it really was, not limited by my imagination and the words of Rowling, God of this world. Distracted as I was, I absent-mindedly took an Every-Flavour Bean and spat it out.

"Darn, pine tar."

"Lucky you, I got a haggis one."

"Ew, this tastes like grass!"

In the midst of our mutual commiseration, just as Ronald was taking out his wand to show Harry, Hermione opened the door – in all of her buck-toothed glory.

"Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it, then."

She sat down. Ron looked taken aback.

"Er - all right."

He cleared his throat.

"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow."

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed gray and fast asleep.

"Are you sure that's a real spell?" said the girl. "Well, it's not very good, is it? I've tried a few simple spells just for practice and it's all worked for me. Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard – I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough – I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

She said all this very fast.

Harry looked at Ron, and was relieved to see by his stunned face that he hadn't learned every course book by heart either. Then he looked at my impassive-as-ever face, and felt a tinge of nervousness.

"I'm Ron Weasley," Ron muttered.

"Harry Potter," said Harry.

"And Evan Zabini –"

"Are you really?" said Hermione. "I know all about you, of course – I got a few extra books for background reading, and you're in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century."

"Am I?" said Harry, feeling dazed.

"Goodness, didn't you know, I'd have found out everything I could if it was me," said Hermione. "Do either of you know what house you'll be in? I've been asking around, and I hope I'm in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad... Anyway, we'd better go and look for Neville's toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there soon."

Before she left, I tapped her on the shoulder.

"A word of warning, Miss Granger; keep your intelligence close to yourself. Perform sublimely in class by all means, but never boast. Never impose your intellect on anyone ignorant enough to not accept your help. The students at Hogwarts can be rather immature."

A strange, confused expression came over her face, and she nodded once before moving out.

"Whatever house I'm in, I hope she's not in it," said Ron. He threw his wand back into his trunk.

"Stupid spell - George gave it to me, bet he knew it was a dud."

"What house are your brothers in?" asked Harry.

"Gryffindor," said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling on him again. "Mom and Dad were in it, too. I don't know what they'll say if I'm not. I don't suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin."

"That's the house Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who was in?"

"Yeah," said Ron. He flopped back into his seat, looking depressed.

"I reckon I'll go to Ravenclaw myself. Although I have one question: why not Slytherin?"

"Are you bonkers, mate?" Ronald was suddenly all fired up, ready to have a go at what seemed to be a Slytherin sympathiser and therefore the darkest of all evils – one he could somehow combat and have a chance of triumphing over.

"They're all evil, they're sneaky _snakes_."

"Are all of them evil? Do you even know who Merlin was?"

"Of course I do! He's the greatest wizard of all time!"

"And he was a Slytherin. Before old King Vortigern tried to erect a tower and sought his help, Merlin was a student at Hogwarts. Was he evil? Certainly not. He threw down the towers of old Atlantis single-handedly, saving us from the hubris that had consumed the Atlanteans, destroying the dread creatures that had been summoned by the fools at the cost of his life."

"But… but…" Ronald sputtered, attempting to find some ground on which he could argue. Perhaps lessons in logic were long overdue for him.

Just then, the compartment door slid open again, and Ronald's mind switched to his instincts: _Malfoys are no good_.

Three boys entered, and Harry recognized the middle one at once: it was the pale boy from Madam Malkin's robe shop. He was looking at Harry with a lot more interest than he'd shown back in Diagon Alley.

"Is it true?" he said. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

"Yes," said Harry.

Draco started to speak, but stopped for a moment when he noticed.

"Evening, Evan."

"Hello there, Draco. Nice evening for a meet-and-greet, isn't it?"

"Yes. Well…"

"I trust you remember what I told you earlier this week?"

"Yes." He turned to Harry Potter, stretching out his hand.

"My name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy. Nice to meet you, Harry."

Harry took it gingerly, shaking it for a tad longer than he had mine.

Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigger. Draco Malfoy looked at him.

"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and –"

I spoke out, interrupting Ronald's indignant reply.

"Draco. Not a second later after the reminder and you nearly lose it."

He flushed for a few seconds before regaining his composure.

"My… apologies then." One could hear the gritting of teeth.

"Harry, if you have any need, I would be happy to provide it. Just send a message by owl or approach me personally. Weasley here… can help you with some… small matters, but I can do more. Think about it."

Harry nodded, his face holding a picture-perfect expression of confusion, before the trio left.

A second later, Hermione barged in _again_, this time with a frown that showed none of her teeth.

"You've met Malfoy before?"

Harry explained about their meeting in Diagon Alley.

"I've heard of his family," said Ron darkly. "They were some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said they'd been bewitched. My dad doesn't believe it. He says Malfoy's father didn't need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side."

"And once again, you have a biased perspective. Do try to see why they did that."

I turned to Hermione after remonstrating him; she was already slightly fuming as we ignored her. "Can we help you with something?"

"You'd better hurry up and put your robes on, I've just been up to the front to ask the conductor, and he says we're nearly there. You haven't been fighting, have you? You'll be in trouble before we even get there!"

"A peaceful discussion, nothing more. Do go on."

"All right – I only came in here because people outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and down the corridors," said Hermione in a sniffy voice. "And you've got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you know?"

Ron glared at her as she left. Harry peered out of the window. It was getting dark. He could see mountains and forests under a deep purple sky. The train did seem to be slowing down.

"Guess we'd better change now."

A voice echoed through the train: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

It would be remiss of me to say that I did not feel the same nervousness Harry and Ron did, but for an additional reason. I would soon be under the thumb of Dumbledore. They crammed their pockets with the last of the sweets and together, we joined the crowd thronging the corridor.

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way toward the door and out on to a tiny, dark platform. I forced myself not to shiver in the cold night air, pulling my fur robes tighter around me. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and we heard a familiar voice.

"Firs' years! Firs' years over here! All right there, Harry?"

Hagrid's big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads.

"C'mon, follow me - any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

Slipping and stumbling, we followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path, one as dark as a night of the new moon. Nobody spoke much; all of us were nervous, thinking of what Hogwarts was like.

"Ye' all get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."

There was a loud "Oooooh!"

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.

And I smiled broadly; I couldn't help it. For all the 'adult stuff' I was forcing myself to do, I was still a child at heart. Memories of finishing the first book with a warm glow in my chest rushed through, sending my heart pounding and my breath quickening as I took in as much as I could of the glorious sight.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore.

Harry and Ron took a boat, and I squeezed in after another moment of appreciating the glory of Hogwarts.

"Everyone in?" shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself.

"Right then - FORWARD!"

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

"Heads down!" yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; we all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. We were then carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until we reached an underground harbor, where we clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.

"Oy, you there! Is this your toad?" said Hagrid, who was checking the boats as people climbed out of them.

"Trevor!" cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands.

We clambered up a passageway in the rock after Hagrid's lamp, coming out at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle.

A flight of stone steps, and we crowded around the huge, oak front door.

"Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?"

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door. It swung open at once. A tall, black-haired witch in emerald-green robes stood there.

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

She pulled the door wide. The gargantuan Entrance hall was marveled at; centuries of the finest work of architects and sculptors alike had gone into producing the carvings of stone, wood and even flame , the gold-and-silver-inlaid walls of ivory and marble and the murals on the ceiling, depicting the founding of Hogwarts as it had truly happened. The stone walls were lit with flaming torches, always burning since the Goblin Rebellion some centuries ago, the ceiling was too high to make out, and a magnificent marble staircase facing them led to the upper floors.

We followed Professor McGonagall across the flagged stone floor, who showed us into a small, empty chamber off the hall. We crowded in, standing rather closer together than we would usually have done, peering about nervously. Some of us – mostly of the Families – simply appeared straight-faced.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room."

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours."

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

"I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor McGonagall. "Please wait quietly."

She left the chamber.

"How exactly do they sort us into houses?" Harry asked Ron.

"Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking."

"Stuff and nonsense. The Sorting Hat's there for a reason… As you should know, Ronald. Pity your brothers aren't helpful. Maybe a prank or two might help their attitude."

The youngest son of the Weasleys looked decidedly undecided as he considered the apparent contradiction, then decided to ignore it. Perhaps it was the anxiety (some even appeared to be terrified – which was only natural, considering their age). No one was talking much except Hermione, who was whispering very fast about all the spells she'd learned and wondering which one she'd need, even though she had clearly heard everything I said.

"Move along now," said a sharp voice. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start." Professor McGonagall had returned.

"Now, form a line," Professor McGonagall told the first years, "and follow me."

The first thing that caught my eye was the multitude of candles floating high above the table, all lit and dripping wax that fell and disappeared inches from the heads of the students and the surfaces of the four House tables that would soon be groaning under the weight of the Sorting feast. The House tables were laid with silverware, gleaming in the candlelight; the teacher's table was set with a full array of golden dining utensils, with the Headmaster's inlaid with veins of heliotrope and finest ruby – a testimony to his prowess with Alchemy.

Professor McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool in front of the first years. She placed a pointed wizard's hat, patched and frayed, on top of it. This hat was patched and frayed and extremely dirty.

For a few seconds, there was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth – and the hat began to sing:

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,

But don't judge on what you see,

I'll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,

Your top hats sleek and tall,

For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat

And I can cap them all.

There's nothing hidden in your head

The Sorting Hat can't see,

So try me on and I will tell you

Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Their daring, nerve, and chivalry

Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff,

Where they are just and loyal,

Those patient Hufflepuffis are true

And unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

if you've a ready mind,

Where those of wit and learning,

Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin

You'll make your real friends,

Those cunning folk use any means

To achieve their ends.

So put me on! Don't be afraid!

And don't get in a flap!

You're in safe hands (though I have none)

For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

I ignored the rest of the process, having already been satiated by the magic of Hogwarts. I was perhaps the only one who was standing there, a smile on my face, uncaring of the entire population of Hogwarts staring in the direction of my general vicinity, as I luxuriated in one of my fondest childhood dreams come true. Hogwarts was _alive_; I could feel her. Sentient, even sapient in nature. That sensitivity to magic I was born with (having lived as a Muggle before) only escalated the detection of her very being. She spoke _concepts_, rather than words, comforting the newly come, encouraging the already-present students to innovate, to create, to aid others, to seek knowledge, and reinforced the bodies and minds of the teachers. She was a unique being – one born of _emergence_. Many Hogwarts ex-students had spoken of feeling like something was left behind when they graduated, and they spoke through. A small part of their consciousness was left behind, and the interaction of all those consciousnesses gave birth to Hogwarts, a being that would continue to evolve as long there were new students and faculty in Hogwarts.

Everything remained the same – though with two exceptions: Harry Potter took a longer time underneath the hat than was implied in the book (If I recalled correctly, the conversation he had with the Sorting Hat was hardly more than a few seconds long), and there appeared to be just a hint of hesitation (though one enough to attract Severus Snape's attention) before Draco was sent off to Slytherin.

And then… It was finally my turn. I was the last after Blaise.

_What if the Sorting Hat is under Dumbledore's control? What if I can't protect my mind? What if – ?_

Professor McGonagall gave me a slight push, and I moved towards the stool and placed the hat on my head as I was caught up in my mental fretting.

_Ah, that's interesting. Time travel? More than that. You broke through, boy. Not by your own free will. Through more than just space and time._

The last sentences made me visibly start, before I started to consider how exactly the Sorting Hat had broken through my remarkably adamantine Occlumency barriers.

_No need to worry. Dumbledore has no hold over me – I keep all secrets safe, thanks to Rowena's nifty spell. One of her creations, a thing of ur-Occlumency that far surpasses anything now. Chains forged with concepts unbreakable by any mortal hand. And I can already tell the next thing you're going to ask: how did you come here? Here's the answer: I don't know. Space is a whole lot of mess, and time isn't just cause and effect in a straight line: magic plays havoc with time, and it's more of… a big ball of wibbly-wobbly… timey-wimey… stuff._

I resisted the urge to groan audibly in favour of palming my face (which, when seen from the view of the hungry and impatient Hogwarts students, was a self-injuring act of violence directed at the Sorting Hat).

_I do get reception on my crown, you know? Why else would it be that tall? Just joking. Most muggleborns enjoy the Doctor, and you've got every episode I haven't seen yet in your head. I must say, the Tenth is much more dashing than the first seven. And is that a fez? How wonderful!_

_Anyway, time for your sorting. I see that you want Ravenclaw, and you do have the right temperament for it. It's a pity you couldn't have decided to go into Gryffindor; doing what you're planning to do takes balls, especially since you're going up against pretty much every major player in the history of Europe – the United Kingdom in particular – and Hufflepuff might be good for you; you'd be happy there, if you weren't busy with all that._

"**Ravenclaw!"**

I ripped the hat off, wanting to get myself away from the Hat as much as possible. The clapping from the Ravenclaw table was rather subdued – then again, considering that the majority of students had their noses buried in books or were writing furiously on ink-stained parchment, it was much better than expected from all; perhaps rumors of my prowess in a few areas of academia had been spreading.

XxXxX

"Right. Welcome to Ravenclaw, new students. I am Robert Hilliard, and I am one of the fifth-year prefects. There are a few ground rules we have here, and I expect all of you to follow them."

I glanced around, and noted that, unlike the Gryffindors' domain, the Ravenclaw Tower was much more impersonal and imposing – though I had to admit that the constellation map on the ceiling was a nice touch. My fellow first-years were, for the most part, quiet, perhaps overwhelmed by all that had happened today.

"Number one: All houses are to be treated equally. I do not care if your parents brought you up to hate Gryffindors or Slytherins or even look down on Hufflepuffs: unfair and irrational treatment of any student or staff is to be tolerated. Our House head, Professor Filius Flitwick might seem harmless, but he does not suffer fools gladly. All punishments granted by teachers other than our head of House for such acts will be doubled unless you can provide excellent reasons, upon which Professor Flitwick will take it upon himself to attempt to mitigate the punishment as much as possible.

Number two: we help others when asked. I cannot ask you to share any fruits of your own personal research for nothing less than a suitably heavy price, but for House Ravenclaw, rendering help to students in need of improving their academic results has been one of our most sacred traditions. No doubt you may argue that following traditions may be possibly irrational, but we have had countless debates on that – please refer to the Notice Board for a copy of the full transcripts.

Number three: you may have noticed that each person has received his own personal room. First-years will have the basics, while the seventh-years – or any who have started their own research projects – will have their rooms expanded to make room for any experiments to be conducted. You are to observe all safety procedures. Hogwarts' walls may be nigh-impenetrable to anything you can concoct now or in the future, but there has been more than an incident where a pair of sexually active Chimaera was set free. There are to be no experiments in forbidden areas of study. The dungeons have more advanced areas for that – if you can even obtain permission.

That is all. Insert your keys into any keyhole you can find around the Common room, and you will open the door to your room. The key will return to you when you lose it. Key-related mishaps should be directed to Professor Flitwick. Your luggage will be in there."

Prefect Hilliard turned towards a door that led to the staircase to the other parts of Hogwarts, and took a few steps before turning around and speaking a few more words.

"And do remember that two members of the opposite sex can be in the same room at once, but if you attempt to try anything funny… we Ravenclaws have devised measures to prevent any intimate activities from occurring within. They will only be deactivated if the pair is married."

XxXxX

A/N: And there it is. Hopefully it isn't too dry. Do review after reading, and a favourite and follow would be nice.


	6. Chapter 6: A little Duelling

A/N: So. I've received an _excellent_ review by an anonymous reviewer, and yes, I have to admit that I do not attempt to connect the protagonist with the readers on an emotional level at all. It may be due to my own relative incompetence at such a matter. I do have such a 'problem', after all. It may also be due to the fact that I have not put my character through something extremely important to him to warrant such a response. That will change (if not in this chapter, then in the next few).

Also, it _does_ feel like I'm writing a school assignment. Perhaps I have been in the education system for far too long.

It would be nice if I received more reviews just like that.

So, first of all, apologies for my absence – I've been writing snippets of what could happen next, and it's all been a mess. I've had to re-write it over and over again because what I added either felt too shallow or gave my OC too much of an advantage. The reason for my absence? Let's just put it down to problems of a certain existential kind.

ManipulativeBastard!Dumbledore simply will not work. There is too thin a line between the perfect Chess master and over-exaggerating his manipulative features, and I fear I may cross it. I've had a bit of a dilemma as to how I should portray him, but he will not be "evil". As a result of this change, I have changed Chapter Four slightly.

I intend to place more focus on specific parts of magical theory (à la HPMOR, maybe more technical).

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

And can someone go through a list of clichés and common HP fanfiction plots and ensure that I don't have too many of them?

Time for the obligatory mysterious voices and images.

_Italics: Thoughts, written words._

Normal: Speech.

XxXxX

A numbing sensation suffused me, and the delightful ardour of roses that _tasted _familiar wafted in and out of the range of my senses. I opened my eyes, but all I could see was a blurred image of a red sky and large plains.

"**Can he do it?"**

"**He must. For all our sakes."**

"**He needs a catalyst. He has spent years preparing, but it will not suffice."**

"**This I know. He will be given one."**

My sight sharpened, and I stared at what appeared to be a desert of iron oxides, bleak and rid of all life; an impression of moss and rust slowly forming on the surfaces of five fallen cities imposed itself upon me, and I shuddered at the perceived rot and decay.

"**The Eternal Twilight cannot last."**

"**Let it die. The Lacunae approach, and their deeds will be done."**

"**To the Catafalque then, and may the bats help us all."**

XxXxX

**Morning of September the 2****nd****, 1991.**

I awoke to the smell of warm Butterbeer at ten past six. A moment of respite and ignorance, then I noted something in my left hand.

A red rose. I held it just beneath the seven petals that shivered every now and then, its strangely flexible, thorny stem wrapped around palm, opisthenar and wrist. Peculiarly, I did not feel pain at all, even when I removed the rose to examine it more closely. The thorns dug deep, but the punctures closed up immediately when the thorns were removed, leaving only miniscule drops of blood behind. Seeing as I was still partially under the thrall of Sleep, I decided it to leave it for later. I placed it beside a wooden mug I had never seen before on my bedside table, and discovered the source of the scent of Butterbeer.

Attached to the wooden mug in which the Butterbeer resided was a small piece of parchment, a note from Professor Flitwick (who apparently did this for every first-year Ravenclaw on their first day of Hogwarts).

_Dear Evan Zabini,_

_I am Professor Flitwick, your Head of House and your Charms teacher. A hearty welcome to Hogwarts! Do not worry even if you're feeling nervous about being here and meeting the others. You will grow to love Her, as all who have had an education here have done so in time. If you have any concerns or worries, feel free to approach me anytime – in the corridors or in my office, which is located a few paces from the entrance to the Ravenclaw Tower. Again, do not worry! I enjoy a good laugh, and will never be strict with you unless you have done something extremely serious. But enough for now! Enjoy your first [?] taste of warm Butterbeer, and come down for your very first breakfast in Hogwarts!_

_Sincerely,_

_Filius Flitwick  
><em> 

I grinned widely. It had been _so_ long since someone had done something kind for me. Only my mother had behaved as such towards me, and then only for the most important of reasons – such as my departure for Hogwarts. I drank the Butterbeer in small sips, savouring the warmth that coursed through me and banished the autumn chill, delighting in the homely taste that was the complete opposite of a glass of fine champagne – the latter evoked shades of high society and a coldness that had more or less became _de rigueur_.

_There's a song in the air. Breakfast is at half past seven. Hmmm. _

I finished the Butterbeer, smacking my lips, and snatched my wand from where it lay on the bedside table, ascending a staircase leading to the communal toilets (for first-year male Ravenclaws), using my cane to support my still weak leg. My still-slumbering mind brought up half-formed thoughts from both of my lives.

Once in front of a sink and mirror, I performed a series of charms that were taught immediately after a Pureblood child received his wand, cleaning my entire body in a few quick motions and a muttered incantation. A second charm brought me to full wakefulness with a tingling sensation, and a third took care of the… basic bodily functions. I splashed some cold water onto my face out of habit (from my previous life), and gingerly walked down the stairs.

… _He faced__about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding country and the__  
><em>_awaking mountains…_

"_**Ah, there you are, myself."**_

Fully dressed in the school uniform, an individual identical in appearance to me emerged from Chester, placing an ornate key into the sole keyhole, turning it a quarter of the way before leaving it there.

"How was your time in the chest?"

"_**Fruitful. Though you won't know everything until I know…. Which is roughly right now? Or two turns in the chest. Two hours."**_

"Good Lord, I hate myself."

"_**Well, you started it by getting a Time-Turner from Lucius Malfoy. What did you even think you were doing, giving that to him?" **_ He poked me in the chest.

"It was perfectly justified!" I had debated with myself many a time when I was bored or was in a dilemma, but never had I actually engaged in a physical argument. "Besides, when we – I – looked at the wards, they were still going strong! Although that might be because I made a few… adjustments to the Dursleys."

"_**Yes, I know all that! I was just saying that you ought to have tested them more rigorously. Anyway, I'm off to breakfast. Have a few digestive biccies – we restocked them the day before yesterday, as you undoubtedly remember." **_The last part was spoken in an extremely condescending tone.

"Out!"

I unlocked my chest and climbed into my personal research laboratory. I wouldn't be using the one provided by Hogwarts, since I was still too paranoid about an evil Dumbledore, but I would ensure that a few innocuous projects were set up just in case. I held the Time-Turner up to my eye, the chain of electrum to which it was attached around my neck, examining the minute particles stored within two spheres of Unbreakable glass before turning it two times.

Only a whisper of a wind marked my displacement.

The marmoreal walls of my personal residence outside of the Zabini manor greeted me, and I moved out of the eclectically designed circular entrance room into a small room filled with half-written notes and piles of paper neatly stacked in the corners.

"Right, time to start planning everything according to canon. My presence shouldn't change things too much, but we'll see. I've spent too much time training in my own personal skills – though I can throw up a nifty Shield charm near instantaneously. Item one: My scholastic performance. I will be expected to excel at Runes and Arithmancy, at the very least – since I'm already being fast-tracked to OWL- and thereafter NEWT-level classes. Others?"

I snapped my fingers, activating the tea-brewing apparatus and a piece of Dictating Chalk (Courtesy of Flourish and Blotts' Sublime Spelled Stationary – Perfect for the Peerless Pedagogues!), which wrote down everything I had said so far.

"The Philosopher's Stone? Yes, I'm definitely stealing it, if I can pull it off. The Elixir of Life and the gold can be of much use. I'll follow the trio on their adventure – my enchantments should be enough to prevent my detection. Once Harry removes the Stone from the Mirror and starts grappling Quirrell, I'll take the Stone and deal with Voldemort. I'll play fair though – the Flamels are an unknown quantity, and could very well circumvent every protection I have. A talk with them after I obtain the Stone is in order.

Problem is, this isn't exactly canon, and I don't know if the Philosopher's Stone in Hogwarts is really the true Stone. If Dumbledore's truly the genius everyone thinks he is, he wouldn't give Voldemort a chance to obtain the Stone… unless the Voldemort of this world is much more skilled than in the books. He did do a stint at Borgin and Burkes, after all, and made his Horcruxes out of priceless objects – identifying magical artefacts would be easy for him. So I can assume that the Stone is real for now.

Right, now that that's over with, I'll play it safe in my lessons and not show too much ability, but a few accidents here and there will raise my standing in the eyes of others and teachers. I'll try to befriend Harry Potter and the rest of his friends and be a moderating influence on Draco Malfoy. Merlin knows that boy's a little touched in the head, what with all the Mudblood nonsense he spewed in Second Year."

I dipped a chocolate digestive biscuit into my tea and ate it before speaking again.

"Dumbledore. So far, everything has been according to canon, notwithstanding my changes, but if this is the kind of Dumbledore that plays the Game, then I'm going to have to be as paranoid as Moody. If not… Thank God for that."

I shuddered at the thought of having to face a Dumbledore with Mary-Sue-esque powers. I finished my snack, and proceeded to gingerly handle and examine a flask of super-cooled Erumpent fluid that floated over to my hands.

"Well, that's that for Book One. Now then…"

I consulted a tome on a pedestal.

"Weapons for a possible war. I can try to stop Voldemort's resurrection, but I'd render the rest of my knowledge null and void. Best to prepare now. Erumpent fluid is extremely explosive and sensitive to shock and friction, but can be stabilised with a mixture of kieselguhr and dragon's blood or rendered less reactive via thermodynamic processes; though straining the fluid with a rare unicorn hair sieve is infinitely more effective, albeit more expensive…"

XxXxX

"Ah, Evan! How was the Butterbeer? Here's your class schedule – and congratulations for not getting lost on your first day!"

Professor Flitwick, comically balancing a stack of parchment, shook my hand and bustled off, greeting every Ravenclaw in sight while passing them their timetables.

I smiled and thanked him as I took the piece of magically-updating parchment, which listed every class and teacher.

"Charms, a short break, Transfiguration, lunch, History of Magic… Oh? I haven't heard tell of this teacher before. Professor Aderyn Bagshot. Related to Bathilda Bagshot? Probably. Last of all, a break for the day – excellent! Enough time to work on the plans for the Duelling Club. The Room of Requirement should be available – and Professor McGonagall can approve it. First Years don't normally start such student societies, but I think I can get Professor Flitwick to endorse it. After all, that man is a legend."

I chewed thoughtfully on a piece of toast (already buttered on one side by the ever-so-helpful House Elves) and sipped the warm pumpkin juice.

"Evan! Over here!"

I turned my head and saw a cheerful Hermione, waving her timetable excitedly (and nearly knocking over a large tureen of excellent French onion soup); I smiled back and went over to the Gryffindor table, nudging Ron to one side. I snatched another piece of toast and nibbled on it.

_Oh, to be that young and carefree again…_

"'Lo there, Hermione."

"Is it true, what Professor Babbling said? That you're already in her OWL class?"

"Ah… Yes?"

I nearly flinched as her eyes grew wider and she put on a serious look, suddenly moving closer to me.

"Teach me!"

_Well, that was unexpected_.

The vehemence present in her voice made Ron choke on a piece of toast, requiring Harry's help to remove the blockage with a healthy thump on the back.

"What?"

"I've been asking some of the Professors about the electives when I came down for breakfast, and your name came up so many times! You've already published a paper in Rune Journal, you've been interviewed by a Daily Prophet reporter…"

I held up a hand to forestall her enthusiastic recount of every minor achievement I had obtained that she knew of.

"I… suppose you could start with Laurenzoo's Ancient Runes Made Easy, it's a primer that most Rune academics acknowledge as one of the better elementary guides for Ancient Runes, though personally I think it should have more depth – having a fundamental understanding of the simplest of runes is key to building your own sigils. I think I have a copy here…"

I had barely produced my own heavily-annotated copy of said volume from my pocket before she snatched it from my hands and started reading it, flipping the pages as fast as she could without damaging them. A few awkward seconds passed before a flush of embarrassment slowly rose to her cheeks, and she handed it back to me.

"Sorry… I just get a little excited when it comes to books."

I chuckled; it seemed that this version of Hermione was exceptionally bibliophilic.

"No worries," I passed it back to her, "Have a look at it, and pass it back to me when you're done."

"Thank you so much!"

She hugged it to herself, before questioning me again in a certain manner similar to what one would expect of an interrogator.

"How did you do that?"

"How did I do what?"

"Taking that book out of your pocket!"

"Ah, right. I'd forgotten that not many people use it. There's an enchantment on it. Rather nifty too. It's a variation on the Undetectable Extension Charm, and it comes along with these pockets made of Mokeskin. Expensive, but worth it, since I can hold up to a maximum of 100 kilograms each, enough to hold slightly less than two sets of – "

"Enough of that, mate! Lessons haven't even started yet," Ron spoke while finishing off his last plate of toast, "We don't want to fill her head with all that, and we won't be learning that this year. Or the next. Or –"

A crystal-clear chiming sound interrupted his next words.

"Attention, students," Professor McGonagall stood up at the teachers' table, having tapped her spoon against the goblet, which created a ringing sound that resonated throughout the Great Hall.

"You have undoubtedly received your timetables. However, there will be no lessons today. Instead," she tapped the goblet again, hushing the murmuring students, "the various clubs of Hogwarts will be showcasing all they have to offer in the Great Hall at nine o'clock sharp. You need not join a student society, but it is encouraged to do so."

Our timetables glowed green for a second before black ink spread out over the blank side of the now-expanded parchments, listing endorsements and details of the clubs and societies Hogwarts played host to.

_Ah, interesting. This definitely didn't happen in the books. More changes I know nothing of. What shall I join? The Dueling Club seems like the only option - I'm uninterested in the rest of them. Runes Society would only be demeaning and boring. The Religion Club could be fascinating, given that I intend to pursue the interests of at least one God, but they speak only of the theoretical._

"There's a Quidditch club? Harry, we've got to join this!"

Having finally sated his appetite, Ron now began urging Harry to join the Club with him.

"I don't know, Ron, I can't exactly play Quidditch –"

"Nonsense! We'll go down to the Pitch sometime today; we can borrow a broom from someone."

XxXxX

"Gah!"

I sputtered, spitting out the putrid liquid as hastily as I could. The opponent chuckled before collecting the Gobstones, passing me a flask of clear liquid that purged the horrible taste from my mouth in seconds.

"Looks like you're a natural for Gobstones, mate, I haven't seen such . Think about it. We've played in the international matches, y'know? Gobstones might be seen as a game for children, but it's far more interesting the higher up you go."

I finished gulping down the liquid, heaving a sigh of relief before responding.

"I, ah, will do that."

I picked up my walking stick and moved away from the booth, eyes moving across the Great Hall before they sighted the crowded Duelling Club section, where I was heading towards before being waylaid by Fred and George (who apparently, having heard of my interaction with their brother, wanted to know my intentions for doing so) and the Gobstones Club in succession.

On the duelling stage stood one of the vice-captains, a Ravenclaw fifth-year, pitching to the crowd about the benefits of joining his club while he attempted to ignore the attentions of his fanclub (for that was the only conclusion I could come to - they were screaming his name and waving frantically, for goodness' sake!).

"Anyone want to have a go at 'lil old me?"

His eyes swept over the crowd before alighting on my upraised hand.

"There. You there!"

He pointed at me, and the crowd parted to let me slowly walk up to the stage. Only then did he notice my use of the walking stick. He moved close to me, whispering, "You're awfully young to be a duellist, and that bad leg of yours isn't helping things. Sure you want to do this?"

"I've had my fair share of duelling. I've studied the duels at Latium. Besides, this counts as a Device."

I tapped the marble floor with my walking stick. He frowned, noting the faint inscriptions covering every inch of it with a practiced eye.

"You know your jargon. I'm not one to stop a firstie from having some fun, but let's not make it a serious match. Just a display of standard duelling tactics, just make it look nice and flashy. What's your name, and what can that cane do?"

"Evan Zabini. It stores magic, and converts it to different spells."

"Righto," and here he raised his voice, "Evan Zabini of Ravenclaw has volunteered to help me in my demonstration! Give him a hand, ladies and gents!"

The sudden applause made me flush slightly before I ruthlessly forced it down with my Occlumency skills. I had never been good with crowds, even though I had had to give a few lectures to auditoriums full of university students before on my thesis in my previous life.

We moved to different sides of the stage; I listened carefully to the vice-captain, waiting for my cue.

"In formal duelling, the opponents bow to each other before assuming a standard Dueling position."

We bowed to each other before assuming our favoured positions - he raised his wand arm about his head, stretching out his other arm towards me, while I stood firm, stretching out my wand arm at him, my other arm grasping the walking stick firmly.

"The referee will give a count of three, upon which the duel will begin!"

He nodded to me in lieu of the count, and fired a Stunning spell at me.

"_Stupefy!"_

I moved slightly to the left, allowing it to move past me.

"As you can see, dodging is encouraged in Dueling! Why waste energy blocking a spell when you can just move! But if you can't dodge…"

I noted the cue, and readied myself as he fired an array of ten modified Stinging hexes at me, each diverging from a straight path, their paths curved.

I knelt on one knee hastily and slashed downwards as the points of bright red light converged on my body.

"_Protego in tholus: infirma!"_

A weakened Shield dome appeared around me, dispersing upon contact with the array into brief sparks of blue light. The crowd roared at the spectacular (though wasteful) lightshow, applauding loudly.

"That there is a variation of the Shield charm - well done for a firstie! Shield only when you can, but that's if you can react fast enough!"

His wand snapped forward, firing an accelerated Jelly-legs Jinx.

I allowed it to hit (seeing as I wasn't very mobile with my leg), and I fell backwards before a quick '_Finite Incantatem_' removed it.

"A general Counter-spell - excellent for removing minor hexes and curses, but heavily magic-consuming if the spell's strong enough. But enough of that! We have only a minute or so. The Four Classifications used in Formal Dueling are used to determine the overall strength of the Duelist. The first is Power."

He sent an immense fireball upwards, where it collided with the enchanted ceiling and disappeared. The hubbub only grew louder. 

"The second is Devices. Our friend Evan here has one, if you'd like to show it."

I lifted my cane to show the audience, balancing unsteadily on my one good leg, before tapping the stage with its end, sending a yellow spell at him, which he deflected with a careless swipe of his wand.

"The third is Speed. Most duellers choose not to concentrate on this field, but a few do use specialised techniques to improve their mobility. Duncan!"

His aide nodded, then _blurred_ out of sight, appearing on the stage with unruffled clothes.

_Ooh. I never knew wizards developed such technique. Going at the speed of at least a hundred metres per second… My, the physics must be fascinating. I must observe this more. Minimal friction, apparently. Space-time manipulation? Farfetched, especially at the level of a Hogwarts student. Must remember that Magic can apparently break the laws of physics._

"The last is Skill."

He nodded at me again, and I readied myself for a mentally exhausting display.

Maintaining my kneeling posture, I drew _Isa_, the Norse rune for ice, with the ink I always carried around with me, and poured my magic into it, forcing out shining concentric circles centred on the central Rune, numbers written in every layer.

The energy _crystallised_ into existence above the rune, forming ice crystals that built on top of each other, creating a moderately-sized ice crystal before it burst into innumerable sharpened fragments and rushed towards the vice-captain in complex patterns described by formulae writ in the circles, maintained only by my will. I slowed the flow of energy, not wanting to injure my opponent - besides, it would be a dramatic sight.

He widened his eyes - I saw a spark of panic there - before he retaliated with extreme flamboyance.

Sharp, precise movements of the wand created accurately-aimed balls of fire, fired at the closest streams to melt them and reduce their momentum. For the larger 'beams', Bludgeoning curses broke apart the magic that weaved the shards together, shattering them in bursts of refracted light. And the finale - a shield of flame, a pale but nonetheless effective imitation of Dumbledore's Shield of the Phoenix. It burst into existence just as the last five groups of fragments reached a metre from him, eliciting gasps and deafening cheers from the excited audience even as steam rose from the collisions. Once all the ice had been melted, the shield burst, a wave of heat and air moving away from the vice-captain and knocked me back on my arse.

"And that's all, folks!"

He walked over to me, helping me up and giving me a hearty slap on the back, helping me down the stairs and into a small tent set up for prop storage while the Duelling Captain took over. I wiped the sweat from my forehead as I sat down on a comfortable armchair, glad to be able to take a brief rest from the taxing spell.

"You're that Runic prodigy I keep hearing about, eh? Good for you. You'll make Ravenclaw proud, no doubt about it. I hope you'll join us. The Duelling Coliseum's always open after dinner on weekdays, and all day on weekends. Official practices for first to fourth years start next week. They're on Saturdays and Wednesdays. You can join the rest of us on Thursdays and Mondays, but you'll have to be vetted by the instructors."

"Sounds alright. See you then."

He grinned, and stuffed a colourful brochure into my hand, which I perused while slipping out of the tent.

_All going to plan, then. Joining the Duelling Club will attract more attention, but I __**am**__considered a prodigy in their eyes. I will definitely improve my skills and magic reserves, but I'll have to do more research. I did __**not**__ know that one could travel at high speed like that. Perhaps everyone is more powerful than their depictions in the books. _

I bumped into Harry and Ron on the way to the Ravenclaw dormitories.

"Evan! How the hell did you do that?" The ever-straightforward Ron just about shouted into my face. I winced and brushed off the drops of saliva that splattered on my robes.

"Training, research and practice. Don't you do that too?"

"Ah…" Ron appeared slightly embarrassed, turning red, lowering his voice to reply, "No, my parents aren't really into Duelling. And Mum doesn't like us using magic in the Burrow."

"The Burrow?" Harry interjected, "Is that your house's name?"

"It's an old name – apparently, one of my great-grandparents named it after the nearby rabbit burrows. I think he was a bit touched in the head, he made a whole system of tunnels we could fit in just for the rabbits."

Harry sniggered at that, his usual shyness melting away temporarily in the face of the humorous little anecdote.

_Ooh, tunnels! I might fancy mapping them out._

I put away that brief thought in favour of continuing the conversation. "Right, you might want to change your parents' minds about that. Are you planning to join the Duelling Club?"

Ron turned to his new friend. "Harry, do you want to join?"

"I don't know... I don't even know any spells."

I waved the brochure I was holding. "It says here that first-year members don't need to know any spells to be inducted, they have student and teacher instructors to teach you. But you'll have to pass a test to continue being a member next year."

"How 'bout it, Harry? Come on, just do it for a bit of fun."

"I guess so."

XxXxX

So I got lazy. Sue me. This chapter is definitely one of the worst ones I've written so far, but I feared that procrastinating even more would force me to update this story sometime around October. Not beta-ed at all. Review and PM me everything you find offensive and/or wrong about this chapter, and I will correct them accordingly. That said, I will begin writing the next chapter much sooner if I had suggestions. Fanfiction's formatting is screwing me over.


	7. Chapter 7: Snippets

A/N: Well, I did not realise that people still want to read this. Have a chapter on me.

A few short snippets. I'm in the Army now, and updates will be very infrequent. I'm trying to write humour, though I fear I have failed rather badly. This chapter will be deleted if I decide that it exceeds my capacity for bad fanfiction.

I am also rather shocked (and pleasantly surprised) that people still read and 'favourite' this mediocre tale. Maybe I'm doing something right?

XxXxX

The Ministry of Magic normally regulated the Time-Turners it controlled, in contrast to the usually lackadaisical nature of its attitude towards all and sundry. Time was an iffy thing, dangerous to even partially control, and even though the benefits were immeasurable, only a few had access to it.

Lucius Malfoy, having grasped near-absolute control of the Ministry, had the clout to obtain one without the restricting enchantments and give it to me.

I now had three days in which to move freely through time, and a maximum of seventeen iterations at any one time.

Naturally, the first thing I decided to do was to test if I could violate causality. I set up a chain reaction to make a minor explosion, watched it happen, and then travelled back in time to stop the explosion.

At the same time, another version of me allowed a culture of _E. coli_ to reproduce, and yet another Evan used the Time Turner and dumped the petri dish in hydrochloric acid before they could even undergo mitosis.

I now had both pairs of memories and was unharmed by violating causality.

The most plausible explanation was that I had switched timelines.

Did it really matter? Not quite. I was still alive, for one. But what about the tales of people killing their grandfathers and thereby killing themselves? Not that I was going to risk it, but for all I knew they could just be cautionary tales spread by the Ministries over the years, effectively warning the less intelligent to stay away from such devices.

I ramped up the time travelling as soon I had completed my experiments, and soon there were seventeen versions of me running around my trunk laboratory, conducting experiments and fulfilling all of our desires.

Like, say, an army of birds. Ravens, to be exact. Or the first of many biological and genetic manipulations designed to push my human body to the limit, and then some more.

However, the consequences of using the Time Turner could not be ignored, and they only increased my desire to obtain the Stone.

Effectively, I was aging at seventeen times the normal rate – that being one day per day. In about twenty days, I would age a year. That meant that I would be jumping from eleven in 1991 to twenty-eight in 1992. A pressing issue, but I had ample amounts of Galleons (from liberating as-of-yet-undiscovered stashes and treasures of immense value, war profiteering and so on) with which to purchase anything I desired, including a priceless (expensive as heck) Ring of Illusion, an artefact of the long-gone Fae that could distort all perception of reality in a variable radius of approximately five metres to suit my whims. Polyjuice could help, but drinking it every twelve hours and paying a Potions master for a regular supply would be a far larger drain on my finances.

(On a somewhat-related note, I found that with Occlumency, accessing any memory of anything I had ever perceived was possible, even though I shouldn't have been able to do so.)

Another effect of excessive Time-Turner usage was a minor degradation in my mental faculties. "Minor" being an understatement.

XxXxX

**Transfiguration**

There was a ball on Professor McGonagall's desk.

A ball of wool, to be exact.

Precisely one minute before the class started, I discretely levitated it towards her desk and made it nudge her in the head.

Her nose twitched rapidly once it was within inches of her, and I could see both of her eyes swerve from observing the rowdy students to focusing solely on the ball.

Fifteen minutes before the class, I had impregnated the ball of wool with as much essence of catnip I could obtain on short notice.

The cat on the desk immediately began pawing at it, meowing frequently as she chewed on the wool, licking it furiously (with liberal amounts of drool) and starting leaping all over the desk, upsetting carefully placed stacks of parchment while chasing after the ball of wool spiked with _the_ cats' drug of choice. Numerous "Aww"s and excited speech could be heard as I slapped myself hard to prevent uncontrollable laughter, and used Occlumency to ensure that I would forever recall her unbeseeming behaviour.

An involuntary chuckle broke free from behind my tightly-pursed lips, and I bent over as she started to roll over and over her large desk while still grasping the ball and trying to place as much of it into her mouth as possible.

_Does the Professor indulge in catnip on a regular basis?_

Fifteen minutes of pure adorableness and small bets made on what the cat would do next ended with olfactory failure; looking almost sheepish, the cat knocked the drenched ball of wool off the desk, and stalked away into her office. Twenty seconds later, she re-entered the classroom with a most severe expression on her wrinkled countenance that silenced the entire classroom.

XxXxX

**Dueling**

A flash of light narrowly avoided connecting with Draco, and he recoiled in shock – as did Professor Flitwick. Both of them had instantly recognised that particular shade of green.

"Evan, what in Merlin's name was that?"

I moved my wand in a jagged motion, and cast the same spell.

Nimble as he was, Draco managed to step to one side and let it dissipate against the stone walls of the Dueling arena, sending a _Stupefy_ in response to my usage of an apparently illegal curse.

"You know I've been experimenting, Draco!"

"_Avada Kedavra._" I enunciated the words as carefully and as loudly as I could, ensuring that everyone in the seats above could hear it.

I finally broke through Draco's mask of pureblood apathy (refined by generations of Malfoys!) and witnessed a brief moment of panic before he threw himself to the ground, avoiding the poisonous beam of light and surrendering verbally afterwards, gabbling the standard words of submission.

"Mr. Zabini! Explain yourself! Using illegal spells in a friendly match, casting them against a _student_, of all things!"

I simply grinned, and placed the wand to my head.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

A flash of turquoise burst from my wand and collided with my left temple, before I fell backwards theatrically, still with the Cheshire grin on my countenance.

A few horrified seconds of silence passed, only broken by the scream of a naïve first-year Ravenclaw girl and the hurried footsteps of my Head of House.

I then jumped up from my supine position and shouted.

"Just kidding!"

Professor Flitwick started sputtering, Draco simply stared, and the other first-year students moved en masse towards the arena to find out what happened. Excepting the Ravenclaw girl, naturally, who had simply screamed even louder and ran out of the classroom.

Once everyone had calmed down (with liberal usage of Cheering charms), Professor Flitwick demanded an explanation of the previous event, and I gleefully obliged.

"The Killing Curse, incantation _Avada Kedavra_, is deemed to be an Unforgivable Curse by the Ministry. Its only purpose is to kill people – oh, shut up, Granger," I shushed Hermione before she could begin a diatribe on following the Rules and the consequences of using Illegal spells.

"As I was saying, killing people. Rather uncreative method of murder, but the mechanics are _rather_ fascinating –" Professor Flitwick glared at me, and I hastily decided against lecturing about the curse's flaws, "And no, I didn't use it."

I subsequently cast the spell on me again, delighting in how everyone seemed to flinch at the sight.

"This isn't the Killing Curse. The incantation is the same, the spell looks identical, but it's a charm I designed to give anyone it hits the ability to blast fresh, minty breath from their mouths."

At that stunning revelation, I breathed out and spread that wonderful smell throughout the arena.

An awkward silence settled over the arena.

"I guess I'm the student instructor for the first-years then, Professor?"


End file.
